Hogan's Heroes: Mission KBO
by ForsakingSilence
Summary: One night. Three disasters. When LeBeau's cooking poisons the men, the only heroes left to answer an Allied distress call are Cpl. Newkirk and a young RAF pilot. But with the Gestapo not far behind, will they succeed in saving the life of a British agent?
1. Fish Stew

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hogan's Heroes! I'm just playing in their sandbox as any fan would.**

**A/N: This is my first foray into the HH fanfic realm. I've loved this show for years and finally felt the urge to sit down and write something...!**

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><p><strong>Fish Stew<strong>

'_It was hardly to be doubted, that several vessels reported to have encountered, at such or such a time, or on such or such a meridian, a Sperm Whale of uncommon magnitude and malignity, which whale, after doing great mischief to his assailants, had completely escaped them—_'

"Carter."

'—_to some minds it was not an unfair presumption, I say, that the whale in question must have been no other than…_'

"Carter!"

At the sound of his name, Sergeant Andrew Carter glanced up from the book in his hands. Stretched out sideways on his bunk, wearing a worn flight suit and boots, he looked in the direction of the voice. In the center of the clapboard, shoebox, building known as Barracks Two, Corporal Louis LeBeau stood beside a potbellied stove. Arms crossed, with a steaming spoon peeping from under an elbow, he glared comically out from beneath an oversized chef's hat.

Carter grinned. An expression which fit his plain, angular, face. "No, it was Moby Dick."

"C'est vraiment stupide de faire une chose pareille." LeBeau muttered, rolling his eyes. "Why are you reading aloud Carter, eh? No one else wants to hear a story about a giant _fish_."

"D'accord," An English brogue butchered the French in agreement. Above Carter, on the top bunk, Corporal Peter Newkirk shifted his languid position, rolling onto his stomach. Hanging his head over the edge of the creaky beds, he tugged on a dwindling cigarette and jerked a thumb toward the pot simmering on the hot cast-iron stove.

"Don't you know what LeBeau's been cooking there all evening? Well, I'll tell you…it's fish stew. Now, if we gotta eat it, if 'n you don't mind, I'd rather not read about it first."

Carter brightened, "Fish stew, huh? Is it Friday again?"

A loud clang drew their attention back to the stove. LeBeau slammed the belly-door shut over the fire, and turned his glare on both of them. "Friday? Sacre bleu, fish stew –ha! It's '_bouillabaisse'_ geniuses."

"Just because you name it something which cannot be spelt, doesn't change what it is," Newkirk said. "It smells like the Thames in here."

LeBeau stiffened. His spoon froze mid stir, and Carter waited for a snappy reply. At first the fight seemed it would continue, but after a pause LeBeau simply straightened to his full height and went back to the soup. It was apparent he had chosen to ignore the insults.

Shooting Carter a quick wink, Newkirk took the Frenchman's silence for submission and turned back to face the ceiling. A victorious smile split a path around the cigarette clamped between his lips. It was daily spats like these that kept their little band of heroes together, and he knew it.

The date was January 16, 1943, and the gears of World War Two were in full swing. It was a time of Victory Gardens, War Bonds, and Betty Grable. Across two continents, every allied soldier dreamt of peace. And for the prisoners-of-war trapped in enemy camps all over Europe, peace could not come soon enough. To the men of Luftwaffe Stalag 13, an air force POW camp in the middle of Germany, the end of the war was a goal only they could help achieve. Made up of different races and talents, they formed a secret task force known only to the Allies. Their purpose: to sabotage the efforts of the Third Reich. Loyalty and accord, along with comradery, was the other half of what kept the rag-tag group together.

Carter closed the book and straightened into a sitting position. "Sorry guys, I guess I didn't realize I was reading out loud. Sometimes I do that, you know? I just get carried away. Boy, that Herm Melvile was one swell writer."

"No, kidding. That's funny. I always thought Herman _Melville_ wrote the great white whale." Newkirk said.

He, unlike the gangly blond bunk-mate beneath him, was average in height with an athletic build. His dark hair and sideburns added a certain refined air to his otherwise ruggedly-handsome face. His blue eyes were at the moment closed, giving time for his unusually long lashes to rest against ruddy cheeks. Newkirk was far from RAF material, which was most likely why he had never exceeded Corporal. Instead, he made a better pickpocket, forger, and performer than an officer –though he was apt at impersonating one from time to time.

As a hustler, Newkirk was by nature laid-back, cautious, and capable. Such traits contrasted with those of his friend Carter, a North Dakota farm boy with klutzy tendencies. Carter had a talent for basic chemistry, but his love was for explosives. Just the mention of dynamite or destruction was enough to awaken, what the other men jokingly referred to as, the "pyromaniac" inside of him. Despite his eccentricities, he was a sensitive guy with a heart for small animals like rabbits, and an interest in all the newest Hollywood films.

On the floor, LeBeau listened to the exchange. In terms of physical characteristics, he was a world apart from the rest of the Stalag inhabitants. A foreign powerhouse of emotions and ideas, packaged in a short frame, compact body, black hair, and wide brown eyes, he was an endless well of French pride. What he lacked in new clothing, he made up for in passion -passion for France and for cooking. Tasting the bouillabaisse on the end of his spoon, LeBeau smiled in satisfaction.

"Where did you get the book, Carter?" He asked, feeling more cordial.

At that moment, three hollow taps echoed up from the pipes beneath the floorboards.

"Oops, the Gov'ner's comin' up." Newkirk said, swinging his legs over the mattress edge. He dropped to earth and paused only to adjust the battledress blouse of his blue-grey serge uniform. "Carter, watch the door."

Obediently, Carter abandoned his book and scrambled out of bed. Going to the door, he cracked it open. A blast of cold air met his face, and he peered out at the Stalag 13 compound. Nighttime had fallen an hour earlier, and with it, a flurry of snowflakes had begun, raining down in thick, soft, clumps, to blanket the ground. The spotlights from the guard towers outside the barbed wire, busily swept over the buildings inside the fence, and across the way, the shadowy bulk of Barracks Three could be seen in intervals. Its roof white with newly formed snow drifts. Scanning the quiet, wintery, scene from left to right Carter found no foot soldiers in sight. For the moment, they were safe. Turning around, he offered Newkirk a 'thumbs up'.

LeBeau left the pot and hurried to a set of beds in a corner of the barracks. Newkirk was already there, and he slapped the top bunk with the heel of his palm. Triggered by two solid hits, the squeak of pulley wheels could be heard as the lower mattress lifted, and a section of wood floor swung free. A second later the bed slats dropped down to form a ladder, revealing a secret tunnel entrance.

Newkirk leaned over the opening. "All clear, sir!"

The sound of footsteps on rungs echoed in the hole and Colonel Robert E. Hogan, group leader and senior POW camp officer, appeared, climbing up from the network of tunnels below. Close on his heels another prisoner followed; a recent transferee and RAF bomber pilot by the name of Sergeant Christian Holden.

"What's the word, sir?" Newkirk asked. Once both men were clear of the tunnel, he smacked the frame again to reverse the process. The entrance closed, leaving an ordinary barracks cot behind.

Hogan studied the small clipboard in his hand. Clothed in brown slacks, a dress shirt, and a leather A-2, he walked toward the table. A crusher cap sat atop his coiffed dark hair, adding a touch of panache to his appearance. An officer in the United States air force, he was a dignified and attractive man. Fearless, dutiful, and brilliant, he led his band of soldiers without fail, earning both their respect and loyalty, and coining the phrase Hogan's Heroes in the process.

"Well," Hogan stopped before the table. Casually lifting one foot, encased in a russet colored officer's shoe, he set it on the bench seat. Supporting an elbow on his knee, he read the information scribbled on the paper. "London reports SYMBOL has come to its first decision in three days…" He glanced around at the handful of expectant faces surrounding him. "Apparently, Old Winnie and Roosevelt have come to the conclusion the Axis powers must surrender unconditionally, right after they decided on tea instead of coffee."

He sniffed the air. "Oh, we're having bouillabaisse again, huh?"

"Oui, Col-o-nel." LeBeau nodded, pronouncing the last word phonetically.

Newkirk sat down on the bench deflated by the news. "Blimey," he groaned. "Then what are we all doin' here? I could have told them that –three years ago!"

Taken in by the conversation, Carter wandered over. "Gee, and think of all the money they would have saved in overtime."

Hogan looked up. "Carter, watch the door."

Carter nodded. "You got it boy, er, Colonel."

A smile twitched on Hogan's lips. Watching the skinny Sergeant return to the post, he felt like a father with a forgetful son, and by the chorus of complaints rising from the other enlisted men, he began to feel like a father with an entire brood of children. Resisting an eye roll, he raised a hand for silence.

"Alright! Cut the chatter."

The room fell silent.

"Kinch is on the radio, still receiving," he continued. "But it looks like London wants us to hit a munitions convoy passing just outside of Düsseldorf, midnight tonight."

"Twelve tonight?" Carter said. "That hardly gives us time to plan anything, you know."

Hogan sighed. "The door."

Carter grimaced, realizing his fumble. "Right. Sorry, Colonel."

LeBeau waited till the compound was again under surveillance. "Why did London wait so long to relay the message?"

Hogan set his clipboard on the table. "Because, with the run of bad luck we've had recently, they wanted to be a hundred percent sure on the validity of tonight's mission. None of us need another bogus target to blow up –we've wasted enough dynamite already!"

"Yeah, 'n now Germany's got seven new holes –and I ain't talking about the ones in Hitler's head." Newkirk said. "Over the last month, every piece of information we've received has been a total wash. I say, with all the snide truck and train routes the Krauts have been layin' on us, one might start to think they had gotten wise to our whole operation."

"Or they've just gotten lucky." LeBeau said.

"Maybe they're just getting smarter?"

"Andrew!"

Carter jumped in his skin at Newkirk's shout, and he scurried back to his station with a terse 'Get your arse to the door!' ringing in his ears.

For a moment Hogan considered what Carter had said, before dismissing it with a shake of his head. "Nah, never happen."

"Bloody impossible," Newkirk crushed the cigarette butt into a tin ashtray. "So what's the plan, Colonel?"

Standing with both feet on the floor, Hogan tugged the hem of his jacket. "I can't think on an empty stomach. LeBeau get the food, Newkirk get a map. The rest of you…clear a place."

The men disbanded immediately, sweeping the table clean of card decks and laundry. Newkirk procured a rolled chart as ordered, spreading it out on the table top for his commander to see. Together they began to wade through the slew of colored lines covering the paper, matching the coordinates against those scribbled on the clipboard pad. LeBeau turned to disperse the soup, but stopped short upon finding the newest member of the gang hovering over the open pot.

"Excusez-moi, what are you doing?"

Surprised, Holden straightened upright. A nervous expression spread across his structured face; high cheekbones, prominent jaw, pale skin, and all. His watery blue eyes darted this way and that under a mop of curly blond hair. Every muscle tensed beneath the periwinkle turtleneck sweater and webbed braces he wore. To LeBeau he appeared to be stalling for an explanation.

Christian Holden was an inigma. Although he had proven himself to be smart and even tempered on occasion, he was also edgy and uncomfortable around other prisoners. So far, Newkirk had been the only one successful in reaching him. LeBeau guessed it was Holden's age. At twenty, he was the youngest airman in their Stalag. He was a child. A green-flyer clean off the battlefield, and as with most baby-pilots, he was jumpy and untrusting. To make matters worse, once on laundry day, LeBeau had caught glimpses of yellowing bruises and scars on the young pilot's arms. He knew what they were. The Gestapo left a prominent calling card.

On a personal level, Holden's interactions reminded LeBeau of a wounded cavalry horse he had once met. At ten years old, he had come across the battle worn gelding in a field outside of Paris. Horses were a rare commodity in France at the end of the First World War, and young horses were even more rare, which made this one special. Previously a robust Throughbred, the gelding was now a worn four year old. It survived the last leg of a war, to be ruined and abandoned in the countryside. LeBeau could still remember the gnashing teeth, flashing flint hooves, and rolling white eyes, of the terrified horse as he and his father tried to help it. In spite of the pain, the crazed gelding shied at every kind effort and lashed out in anger instead. In the end, only a merciful bullet to the head had been the answer. The horse had become too much of a danger to itself.

"Oi! Leave him be, he's a Surrey lad," Newkirk said, breaking into LeBeau's silent observations. "Try not to be so sensitive."

LeBeau watched Holden relax. Newkirk certainly had an effect. "I cannot help it, mon ami." He said, "The English revile good food. I get suspicious."

"Show me some good food and I won't revile. Holden lad, I'd put the lid back on. That dreg is liable to take the paint off the ceiling."

Dropping the pot lid with a clatter, Holden stepped away forcing his hands into his pockets. "Uh, yeah," He said, finding his voice. "I'd take a plate of bangers and mash over this lot any day, I would."

Hogan chuckled.

"Animals," LeBeau said. He stirred one last time and lifted the pot from the stove. Carrying it to the table, where a series of mismatched ceramic bowls awaited, he ladled the rations and passed them around.

"Still all clear, Carter?" He asked, handing the Sergeant his allotted dinner.

"Uh, yup," Carter said, diving hungrily into his dishful with a dented spoon.

Soon everyone was eating. All except for Newkirk and Holden, who declined with a combined, 'Delicate stomach, us English. We can't put just anything in', to which LeBeau responded in a stream of unintelligible French. Even Hogan discussed the advantages and disadvantages of ambushing the convoy dressed as SS men, around mouthfuls of watery fish.

"It's been a while since we've played Gestapo dress-up." He said.

Newkirk poured himself a cup of coffee. "Marvelous! I've been dying for a chance to try out those lovely pair of black pumps the Red Cross sent."

Suddenly, the secret bunk entrance activated from below. Everyone perked up, alert, as their second in command, Sergeant James Kinchloe, ran up the ladder.

"Colonel Hogan!" He paused on a rung. His long, square frame, blanketed in an olive drab field jacket, was visible from the waist up above the hole in the floor. Beads of sweat glistened on the ebony skin of his forehead, beneath the bill of a sweater cap. His mustache twitched with his lips in anticipation. In his hand was a slip of blue paper.

Hogan recognized urgency when he saw it, "Kinch, what's wrong?"

"Sir, I beg to report," Kinchloe took a breath. "We've got a code red emergency—"

Just then, Carter let out a yelp, "Schultz is coming!"

Everyone froze.

"And he's got Klink with him!"

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><p><strong>TBC, Thanks for reading! <strong>

***SYMBOL was the codename for the "Casablanca Conference", held in Morocco on January 14-24, 1943***


	2. Scarecrow

**Scarecrow**

At the mention of 'Klink', the barracks leapt into action.

Newkirk went for the map.

Kinchloe catapulted out of the tunnel.

Hogan made for the lockers.

LeBeau dashed to the stove.

Holden jumped into bed.

And Carter picked up his book.

Everyone else scrambled to act natural.

Hiding the evidence, Newkirk returned to the bench. Jamming the crumpled cigarette into his mouth, he cut a deck of cards. Kinchloe closed the tunnel and joined him at the table. Snagging a bowl of soup he started eating. Hogan passed LeBeau at the stove and tossed the clipboard into an open locker. Slamming the door shut, he leaned casually against the outside. Carter began to read aloud from his bunk, just as the barracks door pushed open.

"Achtung!" A large German man blew into the room, a swirl of snowflakes on his coat tails. He was tall, with a wide girth bursting the seams of his grey uniform. The steel helmet on his head listed to the side, and he adjusted it with one meaty hand before snapping to attention.

"Achtung! Herr Kommandant approaching!" Sergeant Hans Schultz shouted over Carter's expressive reading of _Moby Dick_.

The Kommandant, Colonel Wilhelm Klink, hastened inside on short, purposeful, steps, his lean frame almost lost in the bulk of a wool overcoat. Halting beside the big Sergeant, Klink struck a pose. Crooked nose held high, he puffed out his chest. The riding crop tucked under his arm and the monocle over his left eye undermined his attempt at authority. The peaked cap sitting at an angle on his bald head, also did little to help. Unaware of these faults, Klink glanced about the barracks, waiting to be received.

No one noticed him.

Standing behind the Kommandant, Hogan could only smile as he watched Klink's posture fold like wet laundry. In the back of his mind, he knew the men should come to attention, but he doubted there were enough months in a year to persuade them.

"Colonel HOGAN!" Klink bellowed, twisting his grip on the riding crop.

Hogan flinched. As the ranking officer in camp, it was his duty to manipulate the Kommandant on a daily basis. Confusing and distracting Klink, kept the men of Stalag 13 open for business. After several years of practice, Hogan expected to receive a blizzard degree from the University of Snow Jobs. Zipping up his jacket, he left the locker and circled Schultz to greet the Kommandant face-to-face. It was time to go to work.

"Ah! Colonel Klink, what pleasure." He said, saluting.

Klink returned the salute, his brow knitted in sour frown. "Hogan, why won't your men come to attention? Now, I know we are all enemies, but that is no reason to toss military courtesy out like last night's bratwurst!"

Hogan shifted his position, shielding Carter from view. "You're absolutely right, sir."

"I am?" Klink was taken aback, but briefly. "I mean, I AM."

"Yes, yes, but you'll have to forgive the men." Placing a hand behind him, Hogan motioned for Carter to stop reading. The gesture went unheeded.

"We started a new book club and…"

He swatted again. Carter carried on. Klink squinted dubiously through the monocle.

"…they're just so darn excited about it!"

It wasn't working. Switching tactics, Hogan signaled Newkirk with the jerk of a thumb. Half a second later Carter's voice halted abruptly. A British field cap jammed between his teeth.

"And they tend to ignore everything else." Hogan finished.

Klink eyed him carefully, "I don't believe you. What book could _possibly_ be more interesting than me?"

"That'd be Moby Dick." Kinchloe said.

Schultz edged forward. "What is…Moby Dick?"

Hogan welcomed the opportunity to explain. "Oh, it's a great book, Schultz. You'd love it. And so would you, Kommandant."

Klink's brow unclenched, his ego kicking in. Hogan recognized his point-of-entry and plowed ahead. "You know, you're quite like the main hero. His name is Captain Ahab. And Schultz here, he could be your Moby Dick!"

"Who is Moby Dick?" Shultz asked again.

"A white whale," Hogan answered.

That, he understood. "Jolly-joker." Schultz grumbled. His furry top lip curled up in a disgruntled sneer.

Klink was curious. "How am I like this…Captain Ahab?"

Crossing his arms over his chest, Hogan looked the Kommandant up and down. "Let's see, well, Ahab was a delusional, egotistical, despot and you're—I'm sorry, did I say hero?" He laughed, "My mistake."

A chorus of chuckles trickled between the prisoners.

Klink's face reddened. "That's quite enough!"

Hogan drew a hand over his throat in a 'cut' motion. The sniggering stopped. "My apologies sir," he said, "bad taste."

"I should think so," Klink grunted. "Now, shut up and listen."

"Okay," Hogan said, "I'm all ears."

"And mouth." Klink muttered.

"Ha. Very good, sir."

"_Hogan!"_

"Sorry, sir."

The Kommandant waited for another interruption. After a brief pause, he continued. "I have personally come to inform all of you," he glared around the room, "that 'lights-out' will be one hour earlier tonight. Any barracks found incompliant with this order will be relegated to half-rations until further notice."

A cacophony of protests rose from the men. It was never a good sign when Klink started passing restrictions.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Hogan said. "As senior POW officer in this camp, I demand to know why we are required to sacrifice our allotted time of electricity?"

"Huh." Klink sniffed. "You _demand_? What is this, a democracy or a prison camp?" He stamped a foot. "I don't have to answer to you! If I say, 'lights-out will be one hour earlier tonight,' then they will be turned off one hour earlier! Understood?"

With that, he turned to leave, but before he had taken one step, he paused again. "What is this?" Klink asked, indicating LeBeau at the stove with a tap of his crop on the Frenchman's wrist. LeBeau bristled at the touch. His fist squeezed the spoon handle. Hogan tensed as well. He didn't like the idea of the Kommandant noticing things, it was too dangerous.

No one spoke. Then Newkirk, sensing trouble, found his voice. "Survey says…it's a pot, sir!" He joked, thumbs hooked in his pockets. This time even Schultz joined in the round of laughter, but Klink wasn't amused.

"Cooking in the barracks is verboten!" He snapped. "Schultz, confiscate this stew."

LeBeau's lower lip stuck out in contempt. "It's bouillabaisse," he grumbled.

Schultz's face lit up at the prospect of food, "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!" He wriggled his fingers gleefully, coming forward to lay both hands on the pot as instructed.

"You take that away Schultzy," LeBeau said, "and it will be the end of our beautiful friendship."

"Silence! Stand aside, Cockroach." Klink ordered.

At a nod from Hogan, LeBeau relinquished his spoon. "I hope you Bosch choke on it," he groused, folding his arms over his chest.

Schultz gave him an apologetic look before removing the pot from the stove, only Klink wasn't finished. Swaggering to the door, he lifted a hand in farewell. "As punishment for this infringement, all extracurricular privileges will be revoked for one week."

This was a surprise. "What? I object!" Hogan cried.

"Objection noted and rejected." Klink grinned, thoroughly chuffed. "This will teach you who's really in charge of this camp!"

"Göring?" Someone shouted.

The smug expression on Klink's face vanished. Hogan stepped forward, pleased. "Care for round three, Herr Kommandant?"

Klink got the message. Lifting a stiff hand to his brow, he saluted rigidly, a strained "Goodnight, gentleman", caught between his gritted teeth.

"Sweet dreams, Colonel." Hogan smiled.

Spinning sharply on his heel, the Kommandant exited the barracks. His figure was quickly swallowed in the dark. Left behind, Schultz hesitated to leave.

"I'm sorry about your dinner." He said.

Hogan placed a hand on the big man's shoulder and escorted him gently to the open door. "Don't lose any sleep over it, we'll just send LeBeau to town for fresh supplies. He'll be up that tunnel and back again before you can say 'escape'."

"Oh, good, I feel so much—" Schultz stopped short. "Wait a minute…" He glanced around the barracks. "What tunnel…NO!" He shook his head, reconsidering. "No, never mind. I don't want anything to do with your funny-business. We will _all_ have a much better sleep tonight, if I know_ nothing_—"

"SCHULTZ!"

Hogan winced as a very loud, very irritated, bellow echoed across the compound. "And Klink would be in a much better mood if you did _something_ for a change." He gave the Sergeant a push outside.

"MY OFFICE, NOW…!" Klink's voice threatened, "OR STALINGRAD, LATER!"

Schultz was suddenly motivated, "Gute nacht, Colonel Hogan." He said breathlessly, before charging into the snow like a clumsy bull. "I'M COMING, HERR KOMMAN—!"

Newkirk shut the door, muffling the shout. Shaking his head, he removed the stale cigarette from his mouth. "Blimey, who put Klink's knickers in a twist?" He retrieved his hat from Carter's hand, missing the pensive expression his friend was developing.

"Yeah, something's got him bugged, but unfortunately we've got bigger problems." Hogan approached the table. "Kinch, what's the word."

Kinchloe set aside his now empty bowl. "This may be why Klink is uptight. We received a coded message on our emergency line. It's urgent." He dug the shred of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Hogan. "Three prisoners being held by the Gestapo in Hammelburg have escaped, but they've run into some trouble. Their truck overturned on a side road. They're trapped, Colonel. The engine is leaking fuel."

"It says here, one dead, one injured?" Hogan scanned the paper. "Who radioed this in?"

"A man who called himself 'Scarecrow'," Kinch replied. "He knew the correct passwords, and he claims to be one of the escapees."

Hogan's brow furrowed at the name. "Oh, no."

Newkirk noted the sudden recognition. "You know him, Colonel?"

"Yeah, he's an underground contact I've met before…but only a few times. He is top level in English counterintelligence."

"Ah, British!" Newkirk beamed.

Hogan nodded. "Yes, and deep-cover as a German officer in the Wehrmacht. Has been for six years now. Nobody knows his real name, not even London. But no one has heard from him in four months. A lot of us assumed he had gone dark, for security purposes."

Kinchloe adjusted his jacket collar. "Apparently, the Gestapo didn't think so –if they were holding him, that is."

"Why didn't we know about this, Colonel?" LeBeau asked.

"A million dollar question," Hogan replied.

Newkirk raised a hand to speak. "If that transport is leaking juice it might be a tad unstable, sir."

"Yeah, and if the Gestapo gets a hold of him again…" Hogan walked to the tunnel entrance. Turning around he looked at his men, his tone dead serious. "Scarecrow knows about our operation. He knows London, codes, names, events –hell, he even knows Churchill's shoe size. I don't need to remind you all what is at stake here. We've got to reach him first."

"The Gestapo will be everywhere." Newkirk gestured toward the door. "How are we going to find them before they do? That's a lot of land out there, sir."

Triggering the bunk, Hogan grinned, "With our combined strength, agility, and cunning. Also, if that doesn't work, we've got a radio signal to triangulate. They don't. Kinch?"

Kinchloe slid off the bench and stood. "I'll get right on it." He said, hurrying below.

"What about the munitions convoy?" Holden asked suddenly, sitting cross-legged on a bunk. Hogan looked over, surprised. He had nearly forgotten about the young pilot. The man kept quiet through their discussion, but it was apparent he had been listening.

Newkirk noticed the same, "Don't worry Chris lad, there'll be others. You'll get your chance to blow one back to Berchtesgaden soon enough."

"Yes, next time." Hogan agreed. Turning around he climbed into the tunnel entrance. Taking the ladder one rung at a time, he left Holden to stare after him unhappily.

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><p><strong>TBC, thanks for reading!<strong>


	3. Stomach Pains

**Stomach Pains**

He had been on a rollercoaster only once in his life. A large wood and metal monster called the _Rush_. One ride on the clacking tracks, up and down high hills and sharp turns, had done more to his stomach than flying middeck in a B-17 flagged by anti-aircraft artillery ever could. Now, almost ten years later, he was reliving the experience again. Every twist and turn from that 4th of July in 1933, at the Deerhorn Theme Park, had been replaying over and over for the last twenty minutes.

Underneath Barracks Two, inside one of a hundred different tunnels, Carter sat on the edge of a wooden crate tying his boots; having changed out of his flight suit and into a pair of black pants and a matching shirt. Just then, another sharp pain shot across his stomach, making it hard to breathe. Eyes focused on the dirt floor, he waited for the cramp to pass. Every inch of his body tensed, and he fought the compulsion to vomit. His fingers trembled on his boot laces as he struggled to finish tying his shoes.

Aside from Deerhorn, the only thing he could think about, was staying on his feet long enough to complete his end of the mission. After all, Hogan was depending on him. The cylindrical contours of two German M39s, one in either pocket, reminded him of this. It was his job to destroy the overturned vehicle, after the rescue of Scarecrow and the wounded prisoner, thus leaving the Gestapo to assume all three men had died in an accident. He had stolen the egg grenades from the camp munitions shed weeks ago, and hid them in a mattress for an emergency. The Colonel appreciated the forethought, but Newkirk was less thrilled to find out, his mattress was where they were hidden.

A second wave of sickness hit Carter. Before he knew it, he tumbled off the crate and onto all fours, taking the drop with his eyes squeezed shut. The ground beneath his knees was hard and unyielding, but despite the cold, dry, atmosphere of the tunnel, his entire body felt clammy. Across the room, near the communications table, Colonel Hogan watched him fall.

"Carter!" He called.

Alerted by Hogan's shout, Newkirk hurried over to help. "Andrew, what's wrong?" He asked, worried. Carter's body arched in a severe dry-heave, leaving Newkirk to wait until his friend relaxed again, before assisting him back onto the seat.

Pulling the hat off his sweating head, Carter rested his arms on his knees. His whole body was rejecting him. Everything ached. "I don't know." He replied, once he caught his breath. "I just feel—"

"Sick to your stomach?" Hogan offered.

He thought about it and nodded in amazement. "Yeah…how did—?"

"I feel the same way." Hogan said. Clutching his own midsection, he limped to an empty crate and eased himself down across from the Sergeant.

This was bad. Hogan's mind worked and reworked every detail of the plan. Due to the target of the extraction, and the possibility of Gestapo sized trouble, he was handling this one personally. Only Newkirk and Carter would accompany him in the field. Kinchloe and LeBeau were to remain in the tunnel, to monitor the SS radio transmissions, and convert the underground guest room into an aid station. With the high stakes of the operation that night, the last thing he needed was surprises, and so far, a debilitating physical ailment was the only surprise he hadn't planned on.

They were wasting valuable time. Desperate, Hogan tried to stand. A sudden round of cramps nearly knocked him on his rear-end again and he sat back down, realizing he needed to make his ambitions smaller. He was going nowhere tonight.

What he needed was help. Glancing around, he spotted LeBeau sitting in the corner of the room, legs drawn up and head lowered. "LeBeau, how do you feel?" He asked, but by the man's curled position, he already knew what the answer would be.

"Not so good, Mon Colonel," came the Frenchman's muffled reply. With his arms wrapped about his legs, he didn't even bother to lift his head. Hogan could tell he would get nothing from him.

"What about you, Kinch?" He called over his shoulder. Sitting on a metal stool in front of a high, makeshift, table, covered with wires, a telegraph machine, and several different radios, Kinchloe held his waist, clearly in pain.

"I feel like Louis versus Schmeling, round twelve. I'm pulling punches, Colonel. And we all know how that fight ended."

Hogan rolled his eyes, "Yeah, great, and meanwhile we're up a creek without a paddle. Scarecrow's out there, the Gestapo's hot to find him any minute, and we're all down here with, with, _stomach aches_! What an outfit."

Newkirk shook his head. "Not so Colonel, I'm not sick."

Everyone looked. True to his word, there he stood. Upright, hands in his pockets, and a puzzled expression on his grease streaked face.

"How do you like that? He is fine!" Carter's exclamation faded into a whimper.

Hogan frowned, studying the Corporal. "You are, but why? Wait a minute," he paused, thinking it through. "When did we all start feeling sick?"

"After Klink's visit." Kinchloe said, backed by concourring grumbles from the others.

"True," Hogan smiled, "But I wouldn't give him all the credit. The only thing I can think of is...dinner?"

Newkirk caught on with a snap of his fingers. "LeBeau's stew! I didn't eat it, but you all did!"

"Hey!" LeBeau lifted his head long enough to protest. "Its bouillabaisse and I resent that. My cooking would never hurt anybody, il n'est pas possible!"

"Oh? What if we ask the rest of the room how they feel about it?" Newkirk suggested.

As if on cue, Carter let slip an impromptu groan.

A white, toothy, grin split Newkirk's blackened lips. "Thank you, Andrew. I rest my case, Louie. It is possible."

LeBeau was appalled. "But I did nothing wrong!"

Newkirk snorted, "Except cook."

"Hold it!" Hogan interrupted before the argument could continue. "It doesn't matter who is at fault. What matters is, finding out who else didn't eat the food tonight."

"Everyone did, Colonel." Kinchloe said.

LeBeau disagreed. "No, not everyone," he jabbed a finger toward Newkirk, "he didn't, and his little Surrey friend refused as well. A Frenchman never forgets an insult."

"He's daffy, but right." Newkirk said. "Holden didn't eat it either, sir."

For a moment, Hogan quietly weighed the odds. His dislike of sending only two of his men out on such a dangerous mission, was intensified by the fact he would be sending Newkirk out alone, with an untried agent as backup.

"Kinch, you said you couldn't get in touch with the Underground, correct?" He asked, covering all bases.

Kinchloe nodded. "With Scarecrow's escape, the Gestapo has Hammelburg and the neighboring areas locked up tight. All contact with the Underground has been suspended, until further notice."

Damn it. Hogan resigned himself to the fact he was about to make one of the worst decisions of his espionage career.

"Newkirk."

The man came to attention, "Yes, sir?"

Struggling to his feet, Hogan stood straight, fighting the pain. "Get Holden's ass down here, and tell him, he's got his first mission. You Corporal, you're running point on this. Once you're outside the wire, this entire operation is yours to carry out. You'll be alone, and if you're caught, I'll be forced to disavow all knowledge of this mission, understood?"

"Aye, sir." Newkirk said, and offered his commanding officer a sharp salute.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC, thanks for reading.<strong>


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